


Home is Freshly Baked

by moodymarshmallow



Series: Always Cloudy One-Shots and Side-Stories [6]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 22:13:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/872527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moodymarshmallow/pseuds/moodymarshmallow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andrew Starka loves to watch Theodore bake, for various reasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home is Freshly Baked

There were many things that Andrew liked to watch Theodore do, some of which were unrepeatable in polite company, but most of which were mundane, boring activities that Theodore did mechanically without realizing they were worth watching. Andrew liked them all, but as much as he enjoyed watching Theodore brushing his hair or folding laundry, it was anything kitchen-related that Andrew really loved to observe.

When Theodore stood on his toes to reach coffee beans, it often made his shirt lift enough to expose a slip of his belly. When he made things on the stove, he shifted from side to side and rubbed the back of his knee with one foot, balancing like a small, thin flamingo. He cleaned a little too obsessively, climbing onto the counter to reach the top of the cabinets with the duster. Andrew always spotted him despite how little he said he needed it. Sometimes he did dishes shirtless and Andrew would sit at the kitchen table, the new, sturdy one that they’d fucked on a half a dozen times, coffee mug in his hand, chin in the other, watching Theodore’s shoulder blades move under his pretty red tattoos.

But most of all, Andrew liked to watch him bake. He heard Theodore rifling through the cupboards and shooing Pounce, who liked to sleep between boxes of cereal and cans of soup, and no matter what he was doing he made his way to the kitchen to sit down and watch. Sometimes he brought his medical texts with him, but often he just left them where he was and joined Theodore in the kitchen, out of the way enough not to be a bother.

He told Theo it was because his mother never really baked. He grew up with too much money for her to have to, and the nannies and cooks didn’t like having a child tripping them up while they were working. That was half of it. His fascination was more with watching Theodore look over a recipe with the same kind of focus he usually reserved for his art. No matter how many times he made that recipe for the crispy cookies with the chocolate and caramelized bits, he always stood over the book with his brow furrowed in concentration. Andrew teased him when he gathered the ingredients, telling him he ought to run a cooking show with how thorough he is, and Theodore just rolled his eyes as he laid everything out with the precision of an artist; two eggs in a small yellow bowl, metal measuring spoons with teaspoon and tablespoon worn off with age, the mixer, shiny and high tech and _completely off limits_ to Andrew.

Theodore was fussy about eggs, so he always cracked them into that little bowl first, tossing the shells down the garbage disposal and running it before washing his hands, doing the last step first if he got any albumen on his fingers while cracking. He sifted flour, he packed brown sugar into a measuring cup with the bottom of the cup one size smaller, he leveled off teaspoons of baking powder with the back of his knife, and Andrew loved every tedious, finicky moment of it.

At least once per recipe, Theodore had to shoo Pounce out of the kitchen, usually before he tripped him and he had to hop between counters, grabbing an edge to keep from falling, but not always. Andrew scooped him up and scratched him between the ears, calling him a bad cat and not meaning it any more than when he said it after removing velcro claws from Theodore’s shoulder or rescuing his toys from underneath the sofa. Then they both watched, Andrew leaning on the table, Pounce sleeping on it, both quiet and content until Theodore turned off the oven, the last cookie sheet or pan of brownies, or cake round finished and cooling.

After, when Andrew burned his mouth on something too warm and too sweet despite Theodore’s protests, asked for a kiss to make it better and gotten it, Andrew held Theodore to him and buried his face in his hair, smelling butter and flour, sweetness and home.


End file.
